


Viscosity

by RhineGold



Series: Consanguinity [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Father/Son Incest, M/M, implied - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-25
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-10 07:40:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2016636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RhineGold/pseuds/RhineGold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"They say Neverland is an island of dreams," He continues. Fingers prise and twist, clever and dexterous, finding the hem of his shirt and the lowest silver button. "But of all the things I plotted here, I never thought this’d be the one that came true…"</p><p>An exploration on the properties and possibilities of squid ink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Viscosity

**Author's Note:**

> Written after a conversation with StarvedStar post 'Nasty Habits'. An exploration on the properties and possibilities of squid ink.

The hand in his hair is feather-light, so gentle that if he hadn’t been pinned in place, hyper-aware of his preternaturally-stilled body, he might not have even felt it at all. There is breath, hot and damp, on the side of his neck, and he is grateful for the seal spell, because it prevents him having to decide whether to lean into it or twist himself away.

Fingertips slide around, tracing the fading lines covering his face, and he can blink at least, closing his eyelids in silent submission to that touch. There is more pressure on the journey back down, tips becoming nails becoming claws that dig cruelly into his throat, pinching his adam’s apple as tightly as he had done to their owner earlier that same day.

"You know, I did a lot of thinking on this island," The man who is no longer his son whispers in his ear. "Made a lot of plans, dreamed a lot of dreams."

The air is getting thinner now, harder to take in, between the harshness of his frozen posture and the fingers still sunken into the hollow of his throat. The tears sting the corners of his eyes, but that, at least, is nothing new.

"They say Neverland is an island of dreams," He continues, and there is another hand on him now, creeping round his stomach, into his coat and under, peeling into his waistband. Fingers prise and twist, clever and dexterous, finding the hem of his shirt and the lowest silver button. "But of all the things I plotted here, I never thought this’d be the one that came true…"

"Bae…" He murmurs, feeling faint now, his gut churning with what is surely just a lack of oxygen and certainly not fear of his own flesh and blood. "Bae, what are you…"

"Shh," The admonishment comes so close to his ear that lips brush, teasing the tendrils of hair beginning to stick and curl there with sweat and heat. He cannot fully express the shiver that it illicits, instead tightly clenching his eyes shut. When a tear finally leaks out, trailing down his face, the hand on his throat releases abruptly, allowing him to suck in a ragged breath at last.

The hand in his clothes is against his skin now, pressing into his skin with the heat of a brand. Fingers trace his ribs, brace his sternum, and he is helpless to stop his weight from being shifted until he is pressed tightly against the body behind him. Adulthood has given this man much, and he is tall, solid, and strong. So unlike his father in so many ways, and that should make this easier, but, of course, it doesn’t at all.

He keeps his eyes shut as the hair is lifted from his neck, his head tilted and pressed to the side. There is no containing the soft cry that escapes as teeth set none-too-gently into his bared throat, dry and sharp and alien. The bite is animalistic, cruel, and he can feel the island in that gesture, the loneliness and the intensity and the savagery of children left to become whatever they can make of themselves in a world without boundaries, but with inescapable borders. It is not sexual because it is too wild, too uninformed, but it is primal and intimate in every way. Both like and unlike the hand against his belly, because it is slipping lower and becoming something more unthinkable by the second.

He can feel the wound opening under the jaws of the man he doesn’t know at all, and the scent of blood is sharper than the haze of magic still pinning him like a butterfly. The man holding him groans into the wound, the sound travelling up his shoulder and to his core, just as he shifts his hips and brings them together, firmly, intimately, grotesquely.

The teeth retract then, hard and twisting, filled with punishment and ownership, and he cannot move to cringe or crawl into that terrible embrace. “Don’t cry, Papa,” Baelfire whispers, lips and tongue sinister with a sort of hollowness he has never heard before, “After all, isn’t this what you wanted?”

The sob that rattles through him feels like a dam breaking, as hoarse and raw as the wound still bleeding on his throat. The hand sinks lower, pressing him back harder. Rumpelstiltskin can feel the heavy, warm length pressing against him, even though his coat and too-form-fitting trousers. He cannot scream because he has forgotten how to breathe, this time all on his own.

The next words hang between them, though there is no space to be found between their bodies now. “…Aren’t I your happy ending?


End file.
